The big gamble If you’re a Goan, steer clear of the state’s casinos. That’s the message the Goan government is sending. Reena Martins deals a nifty hand as she surveys the state’s gambling problem
* * * NO LOCALS, PLEASE: Some casino owners discourage locals in order to maintain a healthy relationship with the government It's late afternoon in the Goan village of Santa Cruz and Mathias Vaz, a distinguished grey haired professor of Portuguese literature, lounges in the patio of his glass house. "People in glass houses can't throw stones at others," he laughs. With a 180 degree view of leisurely back gardens and a white laterite cross - not to mention neat rows of shanties where there once stood a palatial house with a mango tree fanning out of its atrium - Vaz's world looks picture-perfect. Well, almost. Late one September evening, two years ago, the Vaz household was splashed with blood. The professor's wife and daughter-in-law were stabbed to death by a family member over a dispute involving the sale of property to feed a gambling addiction in the state's casinos. "I could do nothing but watch helplessly in trepidation," says Vaz, who then owned a prosperous printing business. The killer is still in jail, and the once bustling glass house is pockmarked with the proverbial stone. Casinos are a tinderbox in Goa - waiting to explode as an issue any moment. Last month, the Goa government reiterated its stand to keep locals out of the state's four offshore and over a dozen on-shore casinos, by amending the Goa, Daman and Diu Public Gambling Act, 1976. Rules drafted to prevent locals from gambling in casinos await finalisation. Pics: Thinkstock But insiders say the move is not likely to take off because locals form the major chunk of the onshore casino clientele. Even within the government, there are murmurs of dissent. "I don't gamble or drink and would not go to a casino even if I'm invited, but visiting one does give people a good feeling," says Francis D'Souza, Goa's deputy chief minister, who also holds the law portfolio. "Gambling is a social evil, but we're already a land of laws; so there's no point in getting any more laws," he adds. "A gambler can gamble anywhere. There is hardly any difference between gambling in a casino and playing matka or cards, except that the casino has the element of glamour attached," says D'Souza. But for the state the casino is a cash cow, to be milked. "Goa has suffered a (budget) deficit of Rs 1,500 crore following the mining ban (for two years), and casinos bring in a revenue of Rs 200 crore a year, half of which comes from the entry tax alone," the minister says. Casinos may be a veritable part of Goan village life, and have become status symbols. Even children's birthday parties are celebrated there, says Sabina Martins, a prominent woman rights activist in Goa. That casinos are big business is evident when you visit one. The crowd - mostly professionals and businessmen in their thirties and forties - is kept busy with plates of snacks and alcohol. And if you're indisposed, there's also clear soup, as a 30-something punter, head and neck swaddled in a shawl, was seen drinking while poring over a card table for hours under a dome lit by myriad golden fairy lights. At casinos along Goa's coastline, the punters are mainly wealthy fisherfolk and trawler owners, shippies and the odd Goan housewife mesmerised by the ambience, holds Bosco D'Souza, a former manager of a plush south Goa casino. Bosco says he once confronted a local woman in her sixties who'd spent the entire weekend squandering huge sums at the casino. "I informed her relative about her addiction and had her banned by the casino," he says. When the chips are down, it's not uncommon to see punters go from table to table begging for money. "Fellow gamblers sometimes feel sorry and give them a thousand rupees or two," he says. Xavier Vaz, who operates a casino in a five-star hotel in the state capital, Panaji, says he would normally not keep track of gambling addicts, unless a family member requested the management to ban a punter or on a rare occasion the punter himself requested a self-ban. Martins says it is not uncommon for her to get distress calls even in the wee hours of the morning from local women whose male relatives or friends are serious casino addicts. "A doctor's sister once begged me to help rid her brother of his addiction," she says. But for casino staff, this has become regular fare. "I've seen women beg casino managers to stop their husbands or boyfriends from gambling there," says Priya, a 38-year-old mother of three, who until a few months ago worked at the front office of a north Goa five-star hotel that housed a casino. But little did Priya know that tragedy would strike closer home. Her husband turned out to be a casino addict, and she had to leave home and her job to protect herself and her young children. Priya says she can't wait for the day when Goans are banned from casinos, a view diametrically opposite to that of casino owners. "It would be ridiculous to ban somebody in his own country," says Xavier Vaz. "When the government comes out with a policy to ban locals from casinos, we'll see." William Britto, a dentist-turned-casino owner, says he discourages locals from gambling at his casino, "as the government frowns upon it and we want to have a healthy relationship with the government". But at the end of the day, it's impossible to keep locals out, and any attempt to do it could only lead to resentment, Britto adds. "Addiction is a part of every industry where there is drinking and smoking. Everything done in moderation is all right, and gambling is the easiest of all vices to indulge in moderation." In some parts of the world, local communities are kept out of casinos by alert security personnel. Jose Colaco, a Goan physician-lawyer in the Bahamas, says the locals there are permitted to dine and walk through casinos, but if they stray towards gaming machines or card tables, they're politely dissuaded by security, as it is illegal. Xavier Vaz would have you believe that in a casino, "you win, you lose." But Amol (name changed), a young computer professional who's in charge of the CCTVs at one of Goa's casinos, says it's not quite that simple. "The gaming machines are so rigged that one day the house has an added advantage and the next day, the punter," he says. Minister D'Souza says that gaming machines should be "calibrated" by a state authority. But why is the state yet to appoint a gaming commissioner to regulate the huge casino business? The minister claims he can't hear the question, repeated several times, blaming it on the "poor mobile network". Meanwhile, the casinos hum with activity. The waistcoated male and female staff dispassionately deals cards and neatly arranges Rs 500 notes on smooth playing tables, as gamblers appear lost in this make-believe world. Elsewhere, eyes are glued to the roulette, hoping it will make a heart-stopping halt over the number they've bet on; a scuffle between elderly punters and a youngster is broken up just in time by an experienced Nepali staffer; and a middle aged punter strolls about with his nubile escort. It's business as usual. http://www.telegraphindia.com/1150705/jsp/7days/story_29595.jsp